When I met you, I was a house-sitter
in my own body, eating pastries and
dozing off drunk in the shower.
When we talked, words leaped out of my mouth
like animals released into the wild. You unwrapped
your life like a talisman, spoke
about years and ways you’d ached
in a postcard-ready small town. Time wobbled
on rubbery legs and I was lost in the roominess
of your voice. Later, we put in earplugs
and lay on the bed side by side, barely touching.
We construed each others’ muffled sounds-as sparks
from a saw, as rhizomes drowned in muddy water-
and dreamed them into notes overnight,
shaping them to a melody we hummed
to ourselves in the morning.